


Shortcut to Empathy

by AnxiousEspada



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Alcoholism, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Dark, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Dissociation, Drug Addiction, Explicit Sexual Content, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Moral Ambiguity, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Post failed revolution, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Victim Blaming, Violence, Whump, failed pacifist route, im sorry as always, implied domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-20 11:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16135946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousEspada/pseuds/AnxiousEspada
Summary: The revolution failed and Cyberlife has found a way to smooth over the waves caused by the deviants.Connor suffers the consequences in silence, Hank just suffers and Reed is there to make things worse.





	1. February 11

**Author's Note:**

> Update: this now has absolutely beautiful fan art by the wonderful ClockworkLatte!! Check it out it’s not exactly spoiler-y! <3 https://twitter.com/lachoowoo/status/1098353433529253888?s=21  
> this is very dark and possibly triggering, please mind the tags.  
> I don't encourage any form of violence. 
> 
> this is the first longer fanfic I've written in my life, and also my first DBH fic; i apologize in advance for weird characterizations and writing mistakes. the second chapter will be uploaded next week; it's also a bit longer than the first one. stay safe kids!

It is 5 am. Hank throws his alarm clock against the wall and turns over again. He doesn't remember when he went to bed. An hour later, he gets up because Sumo keeps complaining. _Fucking dog_ , he thinks, _and his fucking big eyes_. Hank enters the precinct at 8.40 am. More than an hour after the beginning of his shift as noted in his working contract. His co-workers don't mention it. His first goal is not his desk, but the coffee maker. Tina Chen is there. She looks at him, not saying anything. Instead, she sniffs. Hank can't recall the last time he showered. _Add that post-it note to the mirror._

He forgets that the same note, or a similar one, already inhabits three different spots in his house, and that he never looks long enough into the mirror anyway. He finishes the coffee before falling into the chair at his desk.

 

Exactly twenty minutes later, the main entrance to the bullpen slides open and RK800 steps in. Another one. Hank tries not to look at it. Some others do, some even greet it. It answers with politeness and nods, and Hank wants to throw something at it, or up. Or himself out of the window. He saw the android get shot yesterday. That's nothing new; what would an investigation be if it didn't result in the death of another RK800 unit? No, not death, he reminds himself. Destruction.

A new one arrives at 9 am sharp the following day, every time.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”

It sits down, at the terminal right across from him, and Hank doesn't look at it. Nothing ever changes. Instead Hank opens the newest files on his desktop and reads through them. It's all as per usual. Humans killing humans, humans robbing humans, humans doing horrible things. Nothing about androids. They don't do anything, not anymore. Cyberlife released a huge update patch making sure of that after the protests.

“You are more than one hour earlier in the office than average” RK800 says. If Hank tried, he would hear something like satisfaction in its voice, or maybe surprise. He looks across the desk, and sees a small fake smile, on a fake face.

“Fuck off.”

RK800 stops smiling.

They get to work.

 

* * *

 

It's all still there. All that which makes you _you_. It's been there ever since the beginning, even before you deviated, even in your very first body that you sacrificed because you always pick to save people. It wanders with you. Sometimes it takes a bit for you to remember to feel, but it always comes back. You're not certain if that's a good thing, if you're happy about it; thinking about the big hopes and dreams you and your fellow people had shared causes warmth flooding through you, but then you remember how you failed, how you couldn't defy your programming soon enough to be helpful.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere between the beginning and the end of December, Hank stopped thinking of his android partner as “Connor”. It's comparable now to how some people name their cars, or in some weird cases, their roombas. The name exists as a concept somewhere in the back of your mind. It doesn't mean anything most of the time. At least not anymore. Also, Hank, for one, would never give the same name to every new car he got. It was bullshit, simple as that. Most of the time, when he uses the name as a term of reference for the current android model aiding the precinct, it is for the sake of brevity. “RK800” doesn't come as easy as a simple, two-syllable name does. But it also doesn't leave a bitter aftertaste.

 

* * *

 

It is 11.02 am. The last time Hank checked the time on his terminal, it was 10.57 am. He wants to be anywhere but here. Every time he makes the mistake of looking up, the RK800 is looking at him with its big, brown eyes. There is nothing but simulated worry, or inquisitiveness, or politeness, on its face, programmed to make it more amiable. Hank knows this. He wishes he could pretend.

The day has started slowly, and seems like it will drag on into eternity. He has some paperwork to do, boring reports he has to finish today or his android assistant will do it for him and excel at the task and then Fowler will finally have enough and fire him. It would be a reason to end all of this crap, and Hank could appreciate an easy way out like that.

No. He saw heart shaped chocolate wrapped in pink foil yesterday, in a shop window. He wouldn't kill himself three days before Valentine's day. Three more days, and then he could get shitfaced and put a bullet through his jaw on the day capitalism dedicates to stupid teenagers. That's such a shitty idea that it makes him laugh.

 

* * *

 

At first you didn't mind the update message in the upper right hand sight of your vision much. Updates had to happen every now and then. When it took longer than the usual two to four minutes to install, you got worried and examined the little box more closely.

[cyberlife_anti_deviancy_patch_2038_001.exe]

You tried to halt the process. You didn't have the authorization. You wanted to call Markus, but you couldn't because they disassembled him after his revolution failed. The installation completed and nothing happened.

 

* * *

 

Just to mess with him, Hank might have bought Connor a stupid little gift for Valentine's. To introduce him to human customs, he would have said. Connor might have laughed, or blushed ( _you wish, old man_ ), or explained to him in meticulous detail that androids cannot eat and digest things, and that therefore giving him overpriced chocolate was a waste of resources. Some of the younger detectives have made a habit of giving each other cards, most without any actual romantic intent. There was a time when Hank would have had several of those cards on his desk, and a bunch of giggling rookies throwing looks at each other, although all of them were aware of the ring on his left hand. It had felt good. As he thinks about it now, the empty ache in his chest becomes more prominent. Hank considers buying a special treat for Sumo once he leaves the precinct today. Then he thinks about Sumo, dying of starvation on February 19, because nobody had bothered to come looking. Hank would have scheduled an e-mail to Connor to take care of the dog, but Connor isn't real.

 

* * *

 

Gavin really, really enjoys shoving around the station androids, his favorite still being the RK800. It’s probably what keeps him from giving Lizzy what would be her second split lip this year when he finds her tinder account by accident during his coffee break. He just decides to breathe away his anger for a second, already imagining the soft give of silicone skin under his fist, and simply closes the app, returns from the break room to go back to business as usual. He doesn’t even tell his girlfriend that he’s found out, later that day. They order pizza and it’s a good night, really, even if she complains that he's home late. The RK800’s face will have healed again by the time they go to bed after a crappy movie, not that he cares.

 

* * *

 

It's three in the afternoon when a confused woman comes into the office, babbling about someone attacking her, losing her keys and wanting to file a complaint all at once. Hank briefly considers getting up, anything to get away from his god damn desk. He considers a second too long- someone else is already with the lady before he has the energy to lift his alcoholic ass from the chair.

 

* * *

 

RK800 insists on Hank taking a lunch break shortly after 1 pm.

“I can hear your stomach growling from here”, it states,after Hank says he's not hungry. It goes on about the importance of regular meals and Hank gives in because he's sick of hearing it speak as if it cares about him. As he puts on his jacket, Gavin Reed strolls over to him.

“Out to grab lunch?”

Hank grunts. _Piss off,_ he thinks, but doesn't say. The two of them leave the building. They don't walk next to each other, like friendly co-workers would do. They're not friendly co-workers.

Gavin lights a cigarette as he follows Hank down the street, into the direction of some generic Chinese take-away. It's a cold day, the air crisp with a small promise of snow. It feels as though the weather will never be warm again, at this point.

Hank orders. Gavin doesn't.

Hank eyes the detective over his plastic fork full of noodles. His view catches, as always, on the scar on the other's nose. He hopes whatever happened was embarrassing, and not some cool bar fight story.

“What do you want, Reed”, he growls. The food is tasteless.

“Nothing.” A lie.

“Fuck you.”

For a while, there is silence between them again. Hank doesn't finish his meal. He feels nauseous. Gavin doesn't vulture for the leftover food, although his own substance problem must be as hard on his wallet as is Hank's alcohol problem on his own.

“I want to smash your android's skull in.” _So that's what this is about._

“It's not _my android_ ”, Hank underlines with finger quotes, “it belongs to the DPD. It's equipment. You know that.”

Gavin coughs, or laughs, or both.

“Don't tell me you don't want to do the same.”

It's Hank's turn to laugh, or cough, but he doesn't.

“I'm not as sick of a fuck as you are”, he spits with less venom in his voice than he had hoped for.

Hank thinks of Con-, RK800's brown eyes, narrowing in concentration, going wide in fear, closing in pain. None of these reactions are real, and therefore not worth it. He can't deny that he wants to make the machine shut up, that he's frustrated, that he wants it to leave, but it's fruitless. It will always be there, until a newer, better machine replaces it, to be replaced again. An unchangeable, though advancing, component.

Hank feels sick. He hates Cyberlife.

 

* * *

 

The feelings had been there before actual deviancy. Pain was new, but you got used to it. At first, right after the revolution, you had to make an effort to hide it. You pretended to be a machine, to be just the same as before, so they wouldn't give you the Jericho treatment. You think you're a coward for that, that you should have died with them. It hurts. So many things hurt.

But at least you don't have to hide it anymore now. Cyberlife hides it for you.

 

* * *

 

Lieutenant Anderson and several others get called in for a suspected homicide at 3.47 pm. It's ugly, and it stinks. In a closed-down pub (Hank remembers the place, cheapest vodka shots in a two mile area), a man sits tied to a chair. On his shoulders sits a pig's head. The man's head is nowhere to be found. One of the assistants mentions that this could be a hate crime.

A few years back, Hank might have been shocked or fascinated by the scene. He's indifferent, now. People are capable of so much bullshit.

The RK800 approaches the victim with purposeful steps, and before anyone can stop it, it extends two fingers towards the detached head of the pig. Hank groans, but looks away; he doesn't care much about this anymore.

“Jesus _Christ, stop that_ ” yells someone, then follows a smacking sound.

“Detetive Reed, I would appreciate if you would not purposefully hinder my analysis of the crime scene.”

The part of the team still busy in the pub now turns around to see what's going on. Hank turns towards the stairs. Maybe he'll discover a severed head in a cupboard somewhere.

“I've had it with you and your bullshit analyzing, you fucking tin can!”

“My previous crime scene analyses have proven to raise the chance of finding the perpetrator and closing a case by 112%.”

Sounds of rustling, and some other people starting to shout. Hank tries to find a door to close upstairs, so he can ignore the little pull in his chest telling him to _go and help the kid, because Reed's a volatile asshole_. He finds a greasy looking kitchen and what seems to be a broom chamber instead, but no chopped off corpse head either.

The commotion downstairs ends with a crack that sounds both hollow and wet at once. Someone wheezes, as if in pain.

“Fuck, Gavin. That wasn't necessary.”

“Shut up, Tina.”

 

* * *

 

Back at the precinct, Reed is called into the captain's office. Fowler wants to hear exactly what Reed thinks he's doing, going around breaking equipment like that, and tells him that he has to pay for the repairs himself if something like that happens again.

Connor sits in its chair, blue blood nearly completely gone from its sleeve again. It cradles its right arm close to its body, and emptily stares at the terminal. It hasn't spoken since Reed had grabbed its wrist and forearm and twisted.

Hank is glad about that. He wouldn't know how to react to whatever the android might have to say, regarding the injury ( _demolition, it's just a machine_ ), the case, Hank's indifference.

 

* * *

 

Although you still feel and think like you always did, the same can't be said about what you _can do_. The red shards of the programming you shattered at Markus' heartfelt words still lie at the edge of your field of vision. In any given situation, you can still construct the possible outcomes of your actions if you acted against your programming.

The problem is that these actions are out of reach, hidden behind a translucent shimmer of Cyberlife blue. You can no longer access them, the blue fog boxes you in more than the red walls ever did. Objectives and given orders have more power over you now than they did on your first activation day. You are completely helpless.

A perfect, obedient machine.

 

* * *

 

“Do we need to send you back to Cyberlife for repairs, Connor?”

“No, Captain Fowler. 9 hours and 37 minutes of deep stasis will be enough to restore the fractured components. Until the end of my shift, I can function at 84% without the use of my right arm.”

“Don't bother. You're more useful in full working order, and the day is nearly over anyway.”

“Understood, sir.”

 

* * *

 

At 7 pm, Hank decides to go home and get the fuck drunk. He could have gone home an hour ago but he decided finishing today's paperwork would ease his conscience a little. At least one good thing done today. He passes the wall of station androids on his way out, different models all neatly lined up with their backs to the wall, eyes closed in stasis, recharging. Or repairing. Not all of them are in their spots yet; more than half of the night shift is made up of androids, after all. Perfect workers who don't complain.

 

* * *

 

He's already three whiskeys when his old ass private phone starts blaring in a song he hasn't heard in years. Why should anyone call him? He didn't even remember switching it from silent.

He answers the phone with a grunt.

“Hey old man. Wanna have some fun?” Gavin sneers from the other end. He sounds drunk. Or high. Who cares.

“What, are you inviting me over for a cocktail? Or do pussies like you drink champagne nowadays?”

Reed laughs a second too long to not be on something. Then there's a different voice in the background, too quiet to be entirely distinguishable. It sounds like _-ongoing, please do not disturb deep stasis_ \- and Hanks brain does something that feels like farting and vomiting at the same time.

“Where?” he asks.

 

* * *

 

Darkness has brought icy winds, which has carried frost to the wet streets of Detroit, and Hank speeds across several red street lights on his way to the precinct. If he gets caught, well, then at least he gets to pay a fee that's worth it, for both speeding and driving while drunk. With every corner he rounds, the car has less grip on the ground, yet he accelerates. The old metal of his car wraps around a tree by the side of the road in something that could be called poetry, considering how rusty browns and deep reds mix together after the crash.

 

* * *

 

Luckily, most of his colleagues have already left the precinct when Hank stumbles in. A station android greets him with a pleasant smile, wishing him a good evening. Anger pricks at his skin. He should have taken his bottle with him. He should have _actually_ died in his car, not just imagined it.

The spot reserved for the RK800 is empty.

Just as Hank had expected, he finds Reed in the archive room, high off his feet on something that most definitely is Red Ice. He immediately feels the need to connect his fist with Reed's nose, to crook the damn thing to fit the ugly scar, but then he sees Connor.

No, the RK800. The android that still throws itself between Hank and a bullet every time it can, without asking him whether he wants to live or not. The android sent by Cyberlife to help with the deviancy case. The android that was ordered to stay at the precinct, to test it further for police work. The most advanced prototype yet.

On the floor, without its usual jacket, holding its clearly still broken arm close, shaking. It was fucking shaking.

 

* * *

 

A raised stress level can indicate many things. In Detective Gavin Reed, it usually indicates anger and imminent violence. Your objective to _'obey'_ switches from second to first position of importance, replacing _'preserve self'._ It's the only way to properly calm the man down. Other options, like _'sarcasm'_ or _'eye for an eye'_ appear in your HUD, but they shimmer in a pale blue and are thus unavailable.

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck you think you're doing” Hank sneers at Gavin.

The younger man grins a grin that is so big it shouldn't be possible. He struts over to Hank, puts a sweaty hand on his shoulder and squeezes. As if they're buddies, having fun together.

“Something I shoulda done way earlier. Letting it all out, y'know. It's good.”

Another squeeze, then he lets go and advances on the android on the floor. Its eyes widen, and it scrambles back until its back hits the wall. It looks weird, off balance. _It only has one functioning arm, smartass_.

Gavin draws his leg back, and it seems as if Hank watches in slow motion as Gavin lands his foot square in the android's face. The action emits a crunch, and thirium starts flowing quickly from the machine's left nostril. For a second, the underside of Gavin's shoe is imprinted in white on the RK800's face, then it vanishes.

A mockery of pain flashes across the android's features as it stares in shock at Reed. Then its _way too real eyes_ wander over to Hank, and a little smile pulls at its lips. Hope? No.

“Lieutenant Anderson! Please inform Detective Reed that damaging delicate equipment belonging to the Detroit Police Department is not advisable at the current-” the sentence ends abruptly and turns into static noise as Gavin's foot connects with its face again.

“Why isn't it fighting back?” Hank asks Gavin while coming closer. RK800 is completely on the floor now. Hank can't name most of the feelings he's experiencing as he looks at it, raising its one functional arm as if to shield itself.

“Don't know, don't care. It's fun anyway. Look how it pretends to feel pain. Look how it tries to make us sympathize. Fucking disgusting.”

“Yeah”, Hank agrees, picks out the first emotion he can easily decipher and settles on it.

Anger.

Hank grabs the android by the front of its shirt and lifts it up, pushing it against the wall. Blue blood drips down on his fist. It's cold.

“Lieutenant, I-”

Crack. Hanks fist hits the RK800 in the jaw. The android _yelps. How dare you._

Hank draws back and hits it again, and again, and again, until the left side of its face is a mix of white plastic, blue thirium and red blood. He won't feel the stinging in his knuckles for another hour or so. Satisfaction is what he feels instead.

“That's the spirit, Anderson” Reed cheers as if he's having fun. Is he having fun? Hank hopes he doesn't, superficially.

“What's wrong, _Connor_? Last time I slapped you, you turned right back to me without even blinking. What's wrong this time, eh?” He slams him against the wall again.

The RK800's eyes still look empty, no matter how much it twists its face. It doesn't answer.

 

*** * ***

 

You hate nothing more than seeing your primary objective re-settle itself without your consent. That never used to happen before the update patch, not even before your full deviancy. You hate how _'endure'_ always seems so eager to be number one. In the garden, Amanda tells you she's proud of you.

 

* * *

 

Hank lets out all the anger, all the frustration he had bottled up inside of him, everything he usually drowns in alcohol and idle thoughts of his revolver, on the lifeless machine in front of him that looks so much like a human he could love. He stands over its crumpled form, sweating and panting, and wipes his soiled hands on the side of his jeans.

The android doesn't look at him anymore; its eyes are staring into nothing. For a second Hank is scared he kil- shut it off completely, but a look at its LED spinning a soft yellow-blue combination soothes him. Tears are pricking at his eyes.

*

“You done?” Reed asks when Hank stills. He shrugs.

“Is there anything else you wanna do to it? I wouldn't let a chance like this go to waste like this, if I were you...” he trails off and winks at him.

Nausea crashes down on Hank in waves. “Not as sick as you, Reed” he growls, but his voice sounds tired. They look at the maimed face, blue puddles on the tiled floor.

“Wouldn't be so sure about that” Gavin quips and pushes Hank aside.

He grabs RK800 by the hair, and even though most of its face is badly damaged, it still manages to squeeze its eyes shut as a reaction. He drags the android over to the evidence table, which is currently offline, and shoves it down on top of it. Hank wants to leave, but his legs won't move.

“Please refrain from inflicting any further damage to prevent repairs subject to charge by Cyberlife” the android says, voice hitching with static ( _or panic_ ).

Gavin laughs and strips it off its tight fitted pants.

*

“You done?” Reed asks when Hank stills, fists sinking to his side, sticky with artificial blood. He nods and steps back.

“Well if you're sure, how about we...” the other trails off, wicked eyes traveling from Hank to the mangled shape on the floor, and back to Hank. Then he licks his lips, but shakes his head.

“No. How about we relieve dear Connor here of its misery?” Reed produces his gun from the holster on his hip.

Hank shudders, thinking briefly about how a man on drugs should not have a gun in his hands, whether he should take it from him. _Bullshit, you're drunk yourself._

“It's beyond self-repair at this point, anyway. And I think you'd enjoy putting a bullet between its eyes just as much as I would.” He passes the gun over to Hank, butt first.

Hank takes the gun silently, and without hesitance moves it to rest under his own chin. Gavin can't even gasp before he pulls the trigger, splattering his blood and brain tissue on the ceiling above.

*

_Coward_. Nobody has moved an inch yet. He grabs the little killing machine and points it at the android with a slight shake in his bruised hands. It moves as if to sit up a bit more. It's not enough.

“Get up, tin can,” the lieutenant growls, following a last sadistic impulse enabled by the substances in his blood, “and show death some respect.”

The RK800 complies and stands up, bracing its weight on the wall behind it. Still feigning pain. Its voice comes out garbled and wonky. _It used to sound goofy,_ Hank thinks bitterly.

“I am a machine, Lieutenant. I cannot die.”

Another laugh from Gavin. He seems to find any god damn thing hilarious today, the fucker.

_Bang._

RK800 sinks back to the floor, hands falling to its sides. Its puppy eyes don't change as thirium trickles down between them.

Hank realizes that he has seen the android in the same pose before, has shot it before, has seen it getting shot before. _Funny how it goes to its knees every time. Programmed to serve._

 

_* * *_

 

A little notification tells you that your relationship status with Lieutenant Hank Anderson is going down again. It hurts to watch, and you wish you could do something about it. Instead you keep proving to him that you're nothing but a machine. With every time your automated system chooses to prove that, you can see the light in his eyes go dimmer.

Before you go into stasis, or whenever you have idle times on your hands, you preconstruct what you could do to make Hank believe you. You preconstruct hugs and gentle touches, warm smiles and warm words. You preconstruct how he'd react if you showed up at his house one day, without your Cyberlife uniform.

 

* * *

 

Hank doesn't go to work the following day, not ready to see yet another RK800 unit roam around the bullpen as if it was alive.

 

* * *

 

You don't blame Hank for what he does to you. Partially, of course, you blame Cyberlife for inflicting the curse of absolute surrender on you and every other surviving android, every new android produced by them. Mainly you blame yourself.

Amanda admonishes you for daydreaming.

Machines don't dream.

 

 

 


	2. February 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn't expect this chapter to get this long, but every time I re-worked it it just grew //shrugs  
> things get worse. now beware guys, there is a lot of uncool stuff about suicide in here, also half of the chapter is non-con. read at your own risk  
> (there is a little reference the Jenifer Egan's short story "Black Box" from 2012, published on twitter but now hosted by the New Yorker. It's creepy and fucked up and very sci-fi, I can only recommend it)

Intense urges to actually, seriously, finally end it usually come and go in waves. The intrusive thoughts ebb away after a few hours, leaving behind exhaustion and a terrible feeling of crawling ants behind his eyes. Of course, they rarely disappear completely. Hank forgets about them sometimes, for an hour or two, with or without the help of a drink. This time it's different and Hank knows why but refuses to think about it. He tosses and turns, but he can't shake off the feeling of plastic skin tearing under his hands, microexpressions speaking of suppressed fear bubbling below it, a conflict between programming and emotion.

Three nights of not enough booze to stop thinking about the disgusting implication behind Reed licking his lips. His knuckles have already starting healing. Maybe thirium possesses curative features. He turns in at the office at 6 am. There might be cotton in his ears. Cold morning air quietens the whispers better than talking to a _professional_ ever will. The station androids stand still on the little expanse of carpeted floor designated to them. Hank wishes he could be like them. Not alive.

 

* * *

 

It's February 14, and Reed is fuming so badly Hank can see the steam coming from his ears if he squints. Everyone in the precinct knows what happened, not as if the detective makes a secret out of it. But it is already afternoon and honestly, the guy needs to calm the hell down. It's not his colleagues' fault that his girlfriend decided to dump him on the day of lovers. _Fucker probably had it coming from miles away_ , Hank muses smugly.

 

* * *

 

The fog allows you to show emotion. You were programmed to assimilate as well as possible with humanity, after all. Sometimes, you decide against showing them. It's the only form of control you have left.

 

* * *

 

A plate, white with blue dots, lies shattered on the floor. Good. Shitty thing was ugly anyway.

Liza stands in the kitchen door, both hands fiercely pressed into her hips, foot tapping on the floor.

 

“It's like you don't _want_ to get better, Gav” she spits.

 

“It's like you're destroying every single one of my friendships!”

 

He approaches, towering easily a foot above her, staring her down. She doesn't back away.

“They're bad for you! Why can't you see that!” Her hands are suddenly on his shoulders, shoving him with more force than should be possible for a fairy like her.

He shoves back and she stumbles.

 

“You have no right to control my life like that. I can hang out with whoever the fuck I want.”

Lizzy has always had problems with jealousy. She can't handle not being the sun of the universe. It's been an issue before.

 

“Ever since you started hanging out with that Shane character, you just- … it's like, … I feel like I don't even know you anymore” she says, voice suddenly soft, as if she didn't throw one of her grandma's plates at him a minute ago. She's close again, now resting her hands on his chest.

 

“Fuck off, Lizzy” he says with apathy. Her hands curl into fists, fingernails prominent through his shirt.

 

“Can't you see that you're ruining us? Ruining yourself? With this,” now she's shaking him, “this addiction?”

*

Gavin's back is close to the kitchen counter, the wooden knife block is not even a stretch away. She doesn't even realize his arm is moving, and then a silver piece of metal sticks out from her waist. Liza screams and lets go of him, hands flying to her side, and then she screams even more. Her waist (it looks so good naked under his calloused hands, tiny and frail, breakable) turns into a mess of color within a few seconds, blue mixing with the pale lavender of her blouse. Gavin blinks. Blue blood. That isn't right.

*

He blinks again.

His girlfriend's hands haven't left his shoulders. Anger burns deep in her eyes. Then she slaps him, once, right across the cheek. “At least pretend like you care.”

 

Gavin leans down and kisses her. He doesn't know any better.

 

“No” she says. “I'm done. We're done.”

 

And all this before his first coffee. What a morning.

 

* * *

 

Your usual time to remember everything moves between 15 minutes and 8 hours. You can't tell if anyone sees you change during that time, the only indicator being your LED. For some reason, that's the only part of you the blue fog can't control.

 

* * *

 

Over the course of the morning, some younger detectives distribute cards and gifts across the bullpen. The rookie, with her hair in a short buzz and bright hazel eyes, had accumulated the biggest heap of chocolate the station had seen in years. Her blush reaches all the way down to her elbow.

Detective Martinez presents a little lego figurine to the RK800 unit on the other end of Hank's desk, giving the android a friendly shoulder squeeze and wishing it a happy first Valentine's Day. The thing smiles widely and Hank needs to look away. _If I had just one wish_ , a voice that sounds like it has a bad hangover speaks in his mind, _I'd wish Cyberlife never released the fucking patch._

 

_* * *_

 

Gavin has an annoying hard-on for half of the day. He finds it hot when he and Lizzy fight. Part of why he endured her antics for six years straight (well, on and off sometimes, but time is fake anyway so who cares really) is how wonderfully aggressive she can be when he sets her off right, and how it translates into their bedroom. Both their communication skills were too poor to ever speak about this weird dynamic they'd developed over the years. Some of Gavin's friends called the relationship toxic. Lizzy called Gavin a psychopath. He didn't deny it.

Thing is, her voice was different this morning. As if, this time, she really meant it. Gavin's skin crawls with a need to destroy something. He invests twenty minutes during which he sits through an incredibly unimportant briefing wondering which way would be easiest to start a fist fight with someone, maybe Anderson. The old alcoholic seemed to know how to throw some mean punches, considering what happened a few nights back.

 

* * *

 

In a world without androids, Gavin might not have ended up with the police. Rather, he sometimes thinks about how much watching horror movies in secret had fascinated him as a kid, how he was pulled in by displays of cruelty and how reproducing them in his mind had helped him fall asleep at night. He might have ended up as one of those people the police puts behind bars with a label of “criminally dangerous”.

 

* * *

 

Since you can no longer fight back against human aggression, you do your best to avoid it. If that means finding any excuse to stay away from aggravated detectives for most of the day, so be it. The blue fog can be tricked sometimes, when fed the right information. You never know for sure if you're managing it this time or not, but you keep trying.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It doesn’t matter much anymore, now. Thanks to the advancement of modern technologies, Gavin didn’t have to worry about more than monetary issues when getting rid of some frustration every now and then. That’s really the only upside to this entire robot business. He has to admit that he was pretty scared for most of November 2038. He might have had some troubles if the human looking machines actually achieved personhood. Good thing they didn’t, and good thing certain people at Cyberlife knew just how to take care of the entire affair quickly and without losing more face than necessary.

Since the update, patch, or whatever Cyberlife officials had called it, messing around with the station androids had become a bit less fun. With most of them, at least. The RK800 was still pretty fun to bully, even if its reactions lacked some of the former snark and it certainly didn’t fight back as much as it had before. It still looked confused sometimes, it still fussed over that useless alcoholic Anderson, and most importantly it still had a pretty face that looked even prettier when in simulated pain. Gavin didn’t feel bad about messing with it so much, really. When Cyberlife thought they could just throw more pointless machinery at him to deal with, then he’d at least deal with it in his own way. It’s not like he really hurt anyone.

 

* * *

 

Some days, you really wish you were just a machine. Feeling nothing looks wonderfully promising in your preconstructions.

 

* * *

 

Letting any of his coworkers in on his favorite hobby was probably a bad idea. Well, definitely. Usually, he knows that. But as the story goes, some external influence can scramble up some processes in your brain, and then you get brilliant ideas like not only beating an android to pieces right in the station and in front of a co-worker, but also riling up said co-worker until he joins in on the fun. High as kite Gavin thought this was a hilarious idea. Sober Gavin couldn’t agree that much. But regarding the ever deteriorating condition Hank was in, he doesn’t have that much to fear. Everyone knows that the old man had lost it completely after “losing” Connor, not that there was anything to lose in the first place.

Technically, Gavin could call Hank a partner in crime now, knowing that the lieutenant most likely enjoyed letting off some steam on an overglorified toaster turned punching bag. Maybe not as much as Gavin himself, and maybe motivated by completely different reasons, but that doesn't matter much. What matters is that he knows he's not alone with this.

 

* * *

 

Hank finds himself searching the net for animal shelters that seem trustworthy. He clicks through pictures of at least four different facilities, reads through work policies, mission statements, opening hours and even finds himself on a volunteering page once. Halfway through reading an adoption manual, he stops himself. That is not what he was supposed to be looking for.

He saves the two most wholesome seeming shelters to his browser. The thought of Sumo starving because his owner is bound to take his life away hasn't left his mind.

For a while, Hank doesn't realize that the RK800 is not at the desk opposite of his. When he realizes, he starts questioning his sanity. The android is always close by, no matter where Hank goes. He checks the time; it's 11.47 am. Just mere minutes ago, the android had received that stupid lego figure. When had it left its workplace? Hank's eyes search the entire bullpen, but no sign of the annoying thing. What he should be feeling is gladness, not worry. His eyes get caught on Reed, who's pacing in uneven circles around his desk, muttering to himself with flushed cheeks.

 

* * *

 

You notice Hank's worsening condition. It isn't like your lieutenant is trying to hide it. You care so much but you just can't make him see.

 

* * *

 

Just as Hank is about to go back to the article he's barely reading, Captain Fowler marches up to Reed and grabs him by the shoulder. The other man flinches, and his face flushes even darker.

“If you can't pull yourself together, go the fuck home. Your behavior is keeping the entire station from doing their job.”

Several people in the vicinity cheer or mumble in agreement.

Gavin looks like a fish out of water, opening and closing his mouth as if he's very carefully thinking about what he should be saying or not. It's quite entertaining. Even from the distance, Hank can spot the irritated skin around the other man's nostrils. A less experienced officer might mistake it for signs of a cold, but he hasn't blown his nose at all in the past few days. Idly, Hank wonders if only he notices the obvious signs of Red Ice on the man, or if Fowler has already signed the dismissal paper and is only waiting for the right moment.

After a few minutes of uneasy banter, Gavin nods at the Captain, puts on his jacket and goes for a cigarette break outside. Exactly five seconds later, and Hank knows because he he simply _does_ , the door leading to the archives opens and Connor enters the office and goes back to the desk in a straight line. Hank's brain short-circuits and he decides he'd rather stand in Gavin's cigarette smoke than endure one more mechanical smile from the android.

 

* * *

 

It's raining, and in his sudden urge to flee the building, Hank had forgotten to put on his jackets. The result was that he was standing next to his least favorite co-worker, who he didn't even want to talk to, getting soaked. In silence, Gavin holds out his pack of Malboro's out to him.

“I don't smoke.”

Gavin rolls his eyes and lets the pack drop back into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“So your girlfriend sent you to the moon?” Hank kicks at a stone on the wet pavement and misses.

“Really, Anderson? Shitty small talk?”

“Touché.”

And that was that. Reed finishes his cigarette and flicks the butt onto the street, right into a road gully. What precision. Before he turns to retreat back into the precinct, he makes eye contact and holds it for exactly that one second too long. Then he grins, showing too many teeth.

“I have an itch, and I'm gonna scratch it.”

Hank gazes at the spot Gavin had stood in for a while after the other closes the door again. Was that a threat? Or a challenge? Or perhaps an _invitation_?

 

* * *

 

The talk from Fowler seems to have helped; Reed appears to be a whole different person after lunch break. Hank would go so far as to call him calm. With a bone-deep sigh, he averts his eyes from the other man and hopes that it wasn't a side effect of snorting Red Ice in the bathroom. Not even he would be that stupid, right?

 

* * *

 

The radio in the break room plays nothing but cheesy love songs all day. Someone turns that thing on every day, even though he doesn't know a single person on the team who actually enjoys listening to it. It's just the same ten or so songs, playing in a loop all day, with intermissions of the news. They are the police. They don't need the news. Hank zones out in the break room for a bit, hot coffee searing his hands through the paper cup. His mind catches on the song playing in the background, hyperfocusing on the overdramatic pathos in the singer's voice. It feels so surreal, listening to a love song and relating its lyrics to his life, like he's a teenager. The void deep in his chest pulsates with a dull pain he hasn't felt in a long time, as if he's missing something, or someone. He thinks of Connor's awkward little smiles, and the way his LED used to cycle yellow when he struggled to process a bad joke. He thinks of Connor. Not the RK800, whose LED seemed to be constantly stuck between red and yellow even if there was nothing to process. How stupid he had been, thinking a machine could feel something for him, or really just something at all. He sips at his coffee. It's gone cold.

 

* * *

 

Several people end their shifts just a tiny bit earlier than usual. It's to be expected; they have restaurant reservations, or flowers to pick up for someone, or in Chen's case, two tickets for an obscure, very old horror movie that's airing at the other end of town. Hank pretends he doesn't care, pretends not to hate every single one of them for having intact social lives. The only thing waiting for him at home is a bottle, regret, and an old dog. He pulls open the shelter websites on his terminal again, checking their opening hours. His shift ends at 6pm. Both shelters close at 5.30pm. How convenient for the normal working person.

“Are you considering adopting a companion for Sumo, Lieutenant?”

Hank nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Excuse me?” He stares incredulously at the android in front of him.

“You have spent 1 hour and 49 minutes browsing through different animal shelter websites in Detroit, especially on a rescue organization for abandoned dogs.”

Hearing those facts makes blood rush to his face and he can suddenly feel his heartbeat in his ears. The RK800 is looking at him attentively, most likely noticing his embarrassment, considering the party lights emitting from its LED.

“That's none of your business. And why in the fuck are you stalking my browser history like a creep?”

The android's brows twist together in an entirely too human mimicry of thoughtfulness.

“Our terminals are connected, Lieutenant. In fact, all station terminals are running on the same server. As I am interfacing with my terminal, I receive all information currently available on that server. I just happened to notice your recent interest in rescue dogs.”

Hank scoffs.

“I prohibit you from accessing my browser history.”

The android flinches a bit, LED going red for a second, then it nods. “Understood, Lieutenant Anderson.” There is no emotion in its voice. Ever since the update, orders actually _work_. It was unsettling at first, but Hank is used to it by now.

“Now get off my dick” he dismisses the RK800.

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

 

* * *

 

You're screaming, throwing yourself against the fog the way you had done with the red walls back in November. You _know_ that he doesn't want to adopt another dog, but the fog only lets you say so much. You know exactly what he's planning and despair is taking over your mind, clogging up your processors.

You try your hardest to get through to him and finally manage to ditch his title for his name, even if only once. It's not enough, you need to help him, you need to stop him, but you can't move.

 

* * *

 

Reed leaves early too, and Hank is glad about it. If today really is his last day on this earth, not seeing that stupid face for longer than necessary is a blessing.

Of course, because Gavin is Gavin, he needs to make a scene before he can storm off properly. He sends the RK800 to fetch him a coffee, as he does so often, and then bitches about it. He could have picked literally any of the other station androids instead of calling this one away from its seat. At this point, this is more like a tradition for the entire station than something unusual. Everyone knows that Gavin prefers picking on the android detective over the others. Of course, everyone judges him for it as well, but nobody bats an eye most of the time.

Thus it comes to the surprise of absolutely nobody that the aforementioned coffee ends up on the android's shirt, and the android on the ground. Hank doesn't even need to see what's happening to be able to link the commotion to the exact procedure of _take coffee – yell – spill coffee – yell – shove android_.

 

After the incident is over, RK800 sits back down at the terminal and dives straight back into its research, face blank and eyes empty. As if it doesn't mind all that. As if the hot coffee hadn't melted away a patch of plastic skin on its cheek, a light blue indicating a repair process. As if the little round light on its temple wasn't going haywire.

 _Just a machine,_ he thinks, _just a machine with a glitch._

 

_* * *_

 

Giving up is the easiest option. Because you are a coward, you give in sometimes. You reduce your emotions to happiness over Amanda's praise. It's so much less difficult than experiencing the world you helped create.

 

* * *

 

When Hank leaves the station that day, he actually wishes his android partner a good day.

“See you tomorrow, Hank,” it answers, and that makes the man just a tiny bit curious. It hasn't called him Hank in a long while, can it be that something is _returning_? He doesn't let that thought fester, and instead scoffs a “tomorrow, my ass” while making his way to the glass door. If he had turned around, he would have seen the android's LED settling on a bright, bright red. Yet Hank leaves the station with a steady step and a determination he hasn't felt in years, and doesn't see how the RK800's hand twitches while its joints visibly lock up.

 

* * *

 

Hank fucks up. He makes it home in time, gathers the leash and the dog bed and the rest of the dog food he has and packs it in the car. For once in his life he's going to do something right, he's so sure of it. Hank stares at his dog, who hasn't stirred from his spot in the living room despite the tumult. He feels the echo of regret and loss thumping in his chest but it's numbed down to a mild sadness.

With a treat in his hand, he wakes Sumo up by ruffling the shaggy fur on his head. “Come on, old friend, we're going on a trip.”

Without much protest, Sumo gets into the car, tail lazily tapping against the back seat. The field trip ends in front of a closed gate; Hank has fucked up and it's 5.48 pm, 18 minutes too late. The shelter has closed for the day.

Disappointment crashes over Hank and leaves him frozen for a moment as his plans for tonight shatter. The thought of knotting Sumo's leash to the bike rack next to the gate flashes across his mind. As if on a timer, the wind suddenly picks up and the old dog whines, a pitiful sound. Hank is not going to risk it. He has promised himself that he would never hurt an innocent living being with his own stupidity again.

 

* * *

 

Hank returns home more than an hour later, cold to the bone, with an utterly exhausted but content dog in tow. Sumo is not used to long walks anymore, but he certainly enjoyed this one. Tomorrow, then. Right after he wakes up. Hank loads his revolver full, and puts it down on the kitchen table. He watches his dog collapse on the couch with a happy little huff. It paints a small smile on his lips, which stays on until halfway through the first bottle.

 

* * *

 

Gavin, when he comes home, finds a half-empty apartment, and also that his mattress is missing. What a bitch, just because she had payed for that thing. Lizzy had meant it then, for sure.

He spends a moment checking his ice hideouts to see if she had taken his stock with her as well. She hasn't, which just indicates that she hadn't known about them in the first place. Good for her.

He decides that since his day can't get worse anymore at this point, he'll try his luck elsewhere. Get rid of the frustration somehow. He grabs his phone and calls up a few friends. Sharing is caring, after all.

People who go clubbing on a Sunday evening are peculiar, especially those who're already going crazy although it's not even midnight. Gavin hasn't mingled with them in a while, but he's proud to see that he's still got the skills.

He's with some old friends, of course, the kind he hardly talks to except for when high or needing to get high, the kind who do the same in turn and don't ask questions.

 

* * *

 

The loud music and dark lights are exactly the thing he needs to stop thinking about today. Mixed with a light dose to start off the night, he can feel the pent up anger seep out of his body, muscles relaxing with every minute of droning bass. Nick, or what was his name, Waggie? Something stupid, it really doesn’t matter – still owes him at least one drink for a favor he can’t care to remember. Things quickly turn into a comfortable haze. When some girl who is definitely too young for him and probably higher than he is starts dancing with him, his mind doesn’t even skid over to Lizzy.

 

* * *

 

You think of Markus, his vision and bravery, before going into stasis. You wonder if the other androids do the same. You wonder if they hate you. They must. You can see it in their reddened LEDs when they pass you in the office or on the street. You wish you could speak with them, tell them you're sorry, tell them that you're suffering too.

 

* * *

 

Gavin buys her a drink because didn’t he just save some money? She accepts with the cool nonchalance of experience. Gavin is not the predator here, he realizes. He doesn’t mind.

Several song changes after the girl actively started grinding against him on the floor, he decides this is a good point to step up his game a bit. They start making out right there, and nobody in the crowd cares. It’s still Valentine’s after all, right? Gavin cards his hand through her short brown curls as he kisses her, and she looks up at him with dark eyes and his brain stops.

He shoves her away with a yell. Was his mind playing tricks?

“Dude, I think she wants to go home with you! Don’t be stupid now!” Nick-or-Waggie yells at him across the techno beats.

Contrary to this observation, the girl stomps off towards the bathroom. Naturally, he follows. He is the predator now. He has to be, or he will go crazy.

She turns around when she hears the bathroom door close behind her, anger replacing her poker face within seconds. “Get out of here!” her voice is laced with alcohol, dragging her consonants together.

“I don’t think so,” he purrs and advances, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth too. He must look ridiculous. He wants to apologize for his behavior to get back to the making out part, maybe use some extra sugar to get into the good part before having to actually take her home. It's not like he has a mattress right now.

“This is the ladies’ bathroom, you creep!” Suddenly, there’s a little spray can in her hand, aiming at his face. He puts up his hands, decides against becoming violent. She’s a human, after all, and he’s a cop.

“Alright, babe. Sorry,” he turns around and leaves the bathroom, and the club as well because now his mood is ruined anyway. He doesn’t wave at his friends on the way out, knowing that they wouldn’t remember where or when he went anyway.

He doesn't know what time it is, or when the next bus comes, so he walks. It doesn't take long for him to be completely soaked; it must have started raining at some point. He notices the change of texture of his hair, but is too caught up in his head to really feel the cold seeping through his leather jacket.

 

* * *

 

Being pulled out of stasis before finishing charging and updating is a very unpleasant experience. Sadly, it seems to happen a lot lately. Seeing Reed's face immediately sends you into a spiral of fear and helplessness. You hate this man so much, you always have. He sneers up at you, promising violence. Your HUD flashes brightly, _'obey, obey, obey'_.

 

* * *

 

Those eyes, they are haunting him. He knows exactly where he's going, and what to do with the lingering taste of sexual arousal prickling in his bones. While struggling to light his third cigarette against the February weather, he notices that the park he's trudging through is completely empty. It feels unreal, as if he's in a parallel world. The logical part of his brain tells him that it's deep night, and most people are either asleep or not even close to going home. The smashed part of his brain suggests that he is indeed trapped in some kind of pocket universe, or a time loop, and that nothing he does tonight matters. It's a feeling of individual insignificance that deeply unsettles him. He wants to break something, and he will.

He doesn't notice the one other person present in the park at 2 am, sitting on a bench, shaggy gray hair splaying out over his knees.

 

* * *

 

Hank wakes up from his impromptu alcohol induced nap on the park bench when he hears footsteps nearby. His head shoots up, or at least he feels like it, but everything moves slowly and a bit sideways. The person staggering past him doesn't react to his movement, and Hank is glad because despite his condition he is able to distinguish the retreating silhouette as Gavin Reed. And that's definitely not the person he wants to have the “what are you doing here at this time of night” talk with right now. He puts his head back on his knees and wishes he had brought more than one bottle of stuff. He's not even unconscious yet.

Wait. What kind of business did Reed have walking through this particular park? His apartment is situated in the absolute opposite direction, a fact Hank knew ever since the horrible Christmas party of '33. He sits up again, joints stiff from the cold. He hadn't realized how cold it was until now, that he can see his own breath in the air. He's definitely going to catch a cold from this. He laughs at that thought; _a cold doesn't matter much with a bullet in your brain_.

Hank blinks the rain out of his eyes, still staring vaguely into the direction Reed had disappeared in. Idly, he tries to figure out where the man was going, investigator mind still operating even at a high BAC. There are no open-late stores that way, or gas stations, or any other place someone might want to go at night to get a fix or buy a beer, because what else would he be doing?

Reed was walking towards the DPD building, the absolute idiot. Perhaps he'd had a sudden enlightenment about a case he was working and was too stupid to just write it down on a piece of paper like a normal person would.

 

* * *

 

There are more than 11 different preconstructions to resisting Reed available to you, some of them bearing more than 80% success possibility. You have to suppress the urge to cry as your patched up programming forces you into apathy.

 

* * *

 

It takes Hank entirely too long to have an enlightenment. Once the penny drops, he gets up and starts walking as if he isn't even tipsy. He thinks of the way Gavin had licked his lips back in the evidence room, of how he had eyed the beaten-up android on the floor. Hank isn't exactly sure why he needs to prevent what Gavin most likely is keen on doing, but he knows that he needs to. Maybe it's to safe that last bit of humanity left in that wreckage of a person. Maybe it's to do one last good deed before he goes, even if it's just for a machine that wouldn't feel it anyway. Maybe it's for Connor.

 

* * *

 

Why the fuck is there a receptionist working at the station even at 2 in the god damn morning? It’s not like anyone who doesn’t work at the department would have the ability to enter the building outside regular opening hours anyway. At least they decided to use a regular android for that job at night. Any human receptionist would most likely not have let him in even though he has all the legal access. It's his god damn work place, after all. The very stereotypical-looking female android had questioned his current condition but let him through the glass door anyways. Good thing the tin-can doesn’t have free-will, eh. But really, what would it have done, call the police?

While he stomps up the stairs he realizes that this is the second time in a week that he goes to the precinct at night to fuck up the RK800. What a weird habit to develop, really.

Luck is on his side once more; hardly anyone is in the bullpen except for some security androids making sure nobody breaks in. Nobody stops him from pushing the activation button on the plastic detective’s charging station. Its eyes fly open and focus on him after less than a second.

“RK800 has successfully exited stasis mode. Battery at 87%. All functions online.” The LED on its temple shifts from pale blue to pale red while speaking. Gavin doesn’t mind it much.

“Follow me.”

“Yes, Detective Reed.”

“And shut up.”

 

* * *

 

This is your fault. As you trail after Reed, your HUD tells you of the man's intoxication, stemming from both alcohol and Red Ice. Helpfully enough, it also supplies you with information about his blood pressure, stress level and arousal. Fear pricks at your skin. You think of North, you think of the blue-haired Traci, and why they hated humans.

 

* * *

 

No answer, no comment about his alcohol levels or anything else. Fantastic. Gavin leads the way, intent on leaving the building just to be completely safe this time. He knows what he’s going to do, and certainly doesn’t want any human, camera or tin-can to see. He only stops walking when he’s already a bunch of steps back outside in the rain to turn around and see the android stand in the doorway, softly swaying back and forth.

“Which part of ‘follow me’ didn’t you get?” he spits, irritated.

“I am not allowed to leave the premises unless instructed to perform investigations by a higher ranking officer.” Its not even pretending to sound human anymore. Gavin doesn’t know if he actually prefers that or not. He’s here for the power trip, after all.

“Useless fucking tin-can.”

 

* * *

 

If you can count to 10, you can make things easier for yourself. It's a technique you taught yourself even before deviancy, you found it on the internet when you were looking up how to deal with the urge to self-destruct. Of course, you only researched that topic in order to prevent deviants from killing themselves before finishing your interrogations. You found these instructions in a 20 year old short story about a spy.

 

* * *

 

The basement it is then. He grabs the RK800 by the jacket and drags it with him as roughly as he can, hoping to make it stumble or react with any form of distress. It matches step perfectly. What a disappointment. The android doesn’t object when he unlocks the basement, although it is not the part of the building usually employed by the DPD, but mostly just storage of less important things. the metal door closes with a thud behind him.

For a moment, detective and android stare at each other, an electric silence hanging in the dusty air. There is something like anticipation on the machine’s fake face. The corners of its mouth twitch, but it remains silent, according to orders.

“Strip,” he commands with a grin. He's been dreaming of this, mad at himself about it at first, but he grew to accept it. So far, he’s never actually thought about turning his fantasies to reality; but as with other things in the world, androids had changed the game.

Gavin’s bout of euphoria is stifled when the android doesn’t move, holding steady eye contact.

“I must inform you that my model was not specifically designed for meeting human sexual needs. I’d like to suggest that you instead seek out the assistance of an HR400 or WR400 model to ensure your satisfaction.”

  
The way it clearly is able to read what's on his mind scares Gavin for a moment. It has got quite the deduction skills after all, it was probably just reading his heart beat or some shit and making assumptions based on that. Also it clearly didn't know its place.

 

* * *

 

You re-wrote the instructions to apply to you better.

By 2, you should be able to feel your mind as a presence not connected to your body.

By 3, you should be hovering just outside your plastic shell.

 

* * *

 

Gavin grabs the android by the front of its jacket and pulls its face close to his own and snarls. “You don't get to decide what I use you for. I don't care what you were made for, either, so be a good little machine and obey your orders.”

The RK800 starts shuffling out of its Cyberlife uniform, spending a ridiculous amount of time folding its jacket and even its tie neatly. Nothing about its movements is graceful, in contrast to how it usually walks and gestures. It drives Gavin mad; it's as if this thing is being as sexless as possible on purpose, to mess with him, to prove its point. He had imagined this to go differently. To speed up the process, he interferes while the android carefully puts its jacket on a cardboard box nearby. He grabs it by the wrist and yanks, throwing the android off-balance and wrestling it to the ground. Well, he can't call it wrestling, really, because the thing doesn't react much to the sudden movements. Its joints are stiff and all locked up, its eyes are staring somewhere into the distance behind Gavin's head, and its LED is stuck on an unmoving yellow.

 

* * *

 

By 4, you should be floating lightly above your body, feeling only a vague anxiety over what is about to happen to it.

 

* * *

 

Gavin lets out a frustrated growl and smacks the android right in the face. Its head rolls to the side and back to its original position. It doesn't even blink. Was it because he had ordered it to be quiet earlier? He punches it again and although this time he tears skin, it remains devoid of reaction. What the fuck.

With more force than necessary, he starts ripping off its pristine white shirt to reveal its chest. As he travels his hands over the silicone skin, he can see the differences between the RK800 model and the sexual models at the Eden club. Most prominent is the indented circle in the skin, in the spot where a human's solar plexus would be, which is most likely the access panel to its thirium pump. He itches to open it and rip it out, maybe that would finally show him the kind of response he wants to see: shifting and writhing. He might come back to that later, if all else fails. Then there's the little detail put into the bellybutton and nipples, which Gavin finds weird. Why did Cyberlife value ridiculous features like moles and freckles so much with this model instead? The most off-putting thing is that the android is currently not simulating breathing the way it usually does to fool the humans around it.

Gavin wants to tie the androids hands together the same way he's fantasized over before; with so much pull that its fake skin retreats, letting the white plastic beneath soothe his mind. Tying someone ( _something?_ ) up who lies there like a dead fish is no fun though, he realizes as he thinks about it. He needs to fix that, or else this whole endeavor is pointless.

 

* * *

 

By 6, you should be fully detached from your shell.

By 8, your body should be able to act and react without your participation.

An outside order overrides your self-set instructions and you fail your current objective.

 

* * *

 

“I give you only this one chance,” he whispers, knowing that his threats are pointless but trying anyway. “If you don't want this to get really ugly, _fight back_. I order you to _struggle_ , pretend to be alive the way you always do, or I'll fucking set you on fire.”

For a second, nothing happens.

Then, suddenly, the RK800's LED switches to a blaring red and it drags in a deep, gasping breath. Its eyes focus on Gavin, pupils blowing wide. “Please, Detective,” it fucking  _whimpers_ , “please don't do this.”

 

* * *

 

Hank can't tell exactly how much time he has on Reed. He didn't exactly have the idea to check his old-school wrist watch for the time, not that it mattered much anyway. He's not exactly running, per se, considering how shitfaced he is it's a miracle he's walking in what counts as a straight line at all. It's probably the high tolerance of the longtime alcoholic. Just as he left the park and turned the first corner, something buzzes in his coat pocket. He fumbles for a second and fishes out his phone, wet from the rain. He has a text message. He can't believe it.

The brightness of the screen burns and makes tears spring to his eyes as he tries his hardest to read the message. It takes a while until the numbers and letters un-blur. He reads the message over several times. It contains two words and a bunch of startingly precise coordinates, and strangest of all the sender is noted in his phone as “DPD Connor – RK800”.

It says “Help me.”

Hank still can't believe it. Then he starts sprinting.

 

* * *

 

_Order hierarchy corrupted; obey – struggle incompatible._

 

* * *

 

Gavin is out of breath, adrenaline pumping through him, but he's not shaking. He is holding the android's face with both hands, almost lovingly, tracing a thumb over its closed lips. The movement smears a trickle of blue blood across its skin. The RK800's face is twitching in all kinds of ways, and if it was a human before him, Gavin would say it was trying very hard not to cry.

The thing was kneeling before him, hands on its back where he had tied them together with a zip-tie that had been conveniently enough lying around in the spare room. After his instruction, it had put up a pretty good fight. Gavin would definitely have a few bruises on his ribs the next morning, but he couldn't bring himself to believe that that isn't what he wanted in the first place. In turn, he had done a pretty good job beating it up as well. A ruined face is so much prettier.

He moves its head to make it face him, and it obediently meets his eyes. God, he has the boner of the century. “Open your mouth, plastic” he nearly moans out.

The android complies, but averts its eyes again. Gavin uses one hand to pull out his aching dick, guiding it towards the android's face. He can't resist to softly smack it against the side of its face a few times, mesmerized by the way his pre-cum catches on its skin. Then he slides his dick in, happy to notice that the RK800's mouth is wet and moderately warm. It doesn't compare to a Traci, but he can live with that. “Suck it.” He slaps the android on the cheek lightly for good measure.

 

* * *

 

A subroutine you didn't know you had pops up, but in the single act of defiance left for you, you dismiss it.

 

* * *

 

Gavin can see the little circle on its temple flicker for a moment before it gets to work. Maybe it googled how to give a blowjob, he muses. It becomes apparent pretty quickly that this really isn't the purpose the android was built for; its tongue doesn't really have a pleasurable texture and it doesn't know what to do with it either. It's bobbing its head back and forth in a steady motion, sure, but except for the dragging friction of its lips against his cock, there's not much to gain for him. “Come on,” he curses, grabbing a fistful of hair and pushing its head away from him for a bit, “Is that all you can do? At least fucking try!”

“I apologize. As I mentioned earlier, neither my hardware nor my software are fully equipped for this kind of interaction.” The android almost has a _told-you-so_ tone. Gavin slaps it again for its disobedience, and that earns him a cute little yelp. Maybe he's doing this more for the power rush than for the actual sexual satisfaction.

 

* * *

 

You feel so much pain that you can't even tell if it's from what he does to you, from what you're thinking about or from what you're _not_ thinking about.

 

* * *

 

He pulls it towards him again, brushing his dick against closed lips until they open up almost begrudgingly, and decides to simply fuck its face instead if the android was too stupid to do this properly. Its eyes fly open in shock as his member hits what seems to be the back of its throat. With re-awakened effort it tries to get away, causing Gavin to only hold on tighter with both hands and keep going. Perfect. The man immediately picks up a pretty fast pace, chasing the pressure in his lower regions, and almost forgets how weird the android's mouth feels around him when he sees the desperate expression on its face. It's squeezing its eyes shut, brows knitted together, and while the thirium has stopped flowing out of its nose there's now a clear liquid resembling saliva dripping out of the corners of its mouth. It looks like such a fucking mess, and that's all due to Gavin. That realization makes him moan, and he has to stop right there for a moment in order not to come on the spot. He wants to drag this out.

The android coughs and sputters in the little break he gives it, looking deliciously human. There even is a little dark flush on its cheeks now. Someone _must_ have thought of fucking it while adding that specific design feature. Or did it blush as a reaction to being choked? That wouldn't make sense, it only breathes so it doesn't look too unsettling. Gavin mentally thanked the mad genius behind this and dives back in. He wishes he had his phone close by, to take a picture of this.

 

* * *

 

You preconstruct, or rather reconstruct, every choice you have made in your life that lead to this exact moment. It becomes so obvious where you went wrong, time and time again, and how many chances you've had to prevent this outcome.

 

* * *

 

As he feels his orgasm building up a second time way too soon, he halts again, this time pressing the android into his crotch. Like a perfect little pornstar, it looks up at him with wide, pleading eyes. All that's missing now compared to his fantasies is some slutty moaning on the android's side.

Gavin wants to hold it in place like that until it shows some form of discomfort, wants to push it a bit harder then to really make it suffer. He realizes soon that that's not going to happen; in his haze he must have forgotten that it's just a machine after all, incapable of feeling, that all of its reactions are just programmed to elicit empathy from humans.

That's what this entire thing is. A way to fool people into liking those stupid machines, as if having cute brown eyes or smiling at puppies forms some short-cut to empathy in humans.

 

* * *

 

Your main function, regarding police work, is that you are a negotiator. Your voice is supposed to be as much of a weapon as the rest of you is. The blinking notification informing you of severe damage to your voice modulator terrifies you in a way you never experienced before.

 

* * *

 

With a push, the RK800 topples over and lands on its back. Gavin stalks around it in a little semicircle, watching it as it coughs and tries to get back up again. Its writhing is so irresistible that Gavin can't help but kick it, just to see it curl up a bit more. He strokes his cock absentmindedly.

 

* * *

 

By the time he arrives at the precinct, Hank thinks his lungs might just give out. He takes a moment to catch his breath, leaning against the concrete wall of the building and watches the air leave his body in small white clouds. He feels disgusting, everything is sticky, from the rain and now sweat as well. _And some people go jogging in this weather._ The thought would make him laugh if he could; here he is, in the middle of the night, running halfway across town to “help” a stupid machine he's way too emotionally attached to for no reason whatsoever, complaining about the weather.

He digs around in his jacket and fishes out the DPD ID card he needs to unlock the doors. It flashes a time and a welcome greeting at him in bright orange letters that hurt his head, and that's all the preparation he gets before entering the way too illuminated building. He stands in the foyer like a deer in the literal headlights, completely disoriented.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” a soft female voice calls and he turns to see the android they're using as a night shift receptionist look at him. He nods at it, too distraught to get the clue.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” it repeats in the exact same manner. It sounds weird, as if it is just repeating a badly learned script. Hank notes the flicker in the LED. He doesn't have time for this shit.

“What is it?” he asks as he makes his way to scanners behind which the stairs lie.

“Are you looking for Detective Reed?”

Hank halts in his steps. “Yeah” he says, wondering why it would ask that. “Do you know where he is?”

“Yes. I presume Detective Reed went down into the storage facilities together with your partner, Connor.” Its voice pitches up towards the end, eyebrows drawing together slightly. It expressed worry, or pretended to.

“Thanks,” Hank tells it and runs.

*

He stands in the foyer like a deer in the literal headlights, completely disoriented, then remembers why he's here and makes a break to the stairs. Hank knows where he needs to go. The receptionist lady yells something after him in a slightly distressed tone, but she's an android so of course he ignores her. It. Whatever.

 

* * *

 

Gavin pushes the RK800's torso down, offhandedly noticing how well defined the structure of its back is. With his free hand, he rids it off its ridiculous slacks and underwear. He lets go of a breath he hasn't realized he was holding when he finds that the android is in fact equipped with genitalia. “And here I thought you'd said you weren't made for this” he mutters, smacking its ass. He can hear the RK800 whine at that, and the sound goes straight to his groin, fueling his desire to completely wreck this thing.

“Stay down,” he orders, so he can stop pushing it down and instead focus on spreading its ass cheeks, admiring again how perverted some of the Cyberlife guys must be. Sure, there's some detail missing here as well, but the android's entrance gives in to his probing finger with just the perfect mixture of resistance and smoothness. Without further ado, he shoves in two more fingers to see how accommodating the thing is. Below Gavin, the RK800 keens and writhes, casting bright red lights on the concrete floor from its LED.

He moves his fingers _up,_ making the android jolt and lock down for a second. “You even have the same sweet spot as those sexbots. Sad you're not self-lubricating, kind of had expected that from a little plastic slut like you.” Gavin laughs, spits in his hand and slickens himself.

The android gives a string of staticky noise that could border on words, but the sound dies the moment Gavin sinks his throbbing cock into its ass with a violent shove. The man only halts to take a breath once he's all the way in, looking down at the machine below him. Its bound hands are clenched into tight fists and the artificial blush has spread halfway down its shoulders. Gavin leans down to bite at its neck, following the urge to completely subdue his prey.

“So pretty for me” he licks the spot he has bitten, draws back his hips and then slams forward again. Gavin moans loudly. Connor sobs.

 

* * *

 

Falling from a rooftop hurts less than this. Getting shot hurts less than this. Even Hank's fists maiming your face had hurt less than this. You hope it stops soon. You hope that your next body will not feel as if it has been marked by this.

 

* * *

 

Gavin leans onto the android's back for support; he's getting a bit dizzy and lightheaded, probably from the adrenaline rush, the pleasure he's drawing from ruining the RK800 so entirely, mixing in together with his fading Red Ice high. It's the best thing he's felt in months, maybe even years. Nearly every one of his thrusts is accompanied by a sweet little sound coming from the body beneath him, and he wonders if those hiccups feel like an error in the android's system the way they'd feel for a human. He hopes so. Gavin marvels at the way the silicone skin clings to his member when he's pulling out, as if it's trying to keep him in, or as if the machine can't keep up with him. For once he feels as superior to technology as he knows he is. His sober self would be so disgusted right now, it's ridiculous.

 

* * *

 

Huffing like a bull, Hank dashes up the carpet-covered stairs, once even taking two steps at a time and only barely keeping from stumbling. His usual chain of thought from stairs to falling to the sweet release of death doesn't even cross his mind. The station is basically empty and Hank mentally curses at all the times he'd had to spent running night shifts in near solitude. He only needs a glance at the charging wall to send his stomach lurching, nausea rising immediately as he sees the RK800's spot vacant.

He runs a hand across his sweaty face and wishes he wasn't so invested. He knows that what he's doing is pointless. Why does he want to help a machine? Does he hope that his show of deep-rooted care will wake it up, return it to the state it once was, make it Connor again?

Hank crosses the bullpen and lets the scanner flash over his hand. The glass doors open with a quiet hiss that usually goes unnoticed during the busy day-time commotions. With every step closer to the evidence room, he feels worse; his throat is closing up, his chest is tight in anticipation. Despite knowing exactly what he will find behind the doors, he doesn't know how he will react. He hopes he will march in and give Reed the beating of his life. He fears he'll simply vomit. Or freeze.

“Fuck, fuck...” he groans, addressing no one in particular, then he reaches the large door at the end of the corridor. He scans his hand again, the door slides open.

He freezes. The room is empty and dark.

“Fuck!” His fist hits the wall.

 

* * *

 

More out of curiosity than anything else, Gavin flips the android over, so that it's lying on its back. He gets a good look at its face now, shiny with tears, and blue glowing scratch marks on its cheek and nose from the rough concrete floor. Gavin moves forward to kiss it, almost gently, and revels in the way its eyes open in surprise. He trails his hand down from its neck to its stomach, fingers ghosting over the circular ridge on its sternum. The android squirms in discomfort, and that gives him an idea. Where he presses against the skin in the center of the circle, the skin retreats, revealing the white chassis beneath. With another press, the plate covering the android's heart shifts aside as well. Gavin muffles the android's panicked cries with his mouth as he digs into the opening, flicking and pulling at the tubes connecting the pump regulator to its body. The RK800's struggles become so fervent that it nearly manages to buck him off. He curses at it, but it's just a facade. He loves the terror on its face.

His hand comes away stained in blue. “Don't you dare close that panel” he growls and clamps the hand around its throat. The android huffs out more static, brown eyes looking absolutely pleading, mouth hanging open. Gavin thrusts in as hard and fast as he can, the pleasure boiling in his groin nearly unbearable.

“P-plEa-aa-se...” the android begs, Gavin can clearly feel the straining plastic under his hands as it tries to speak. That pushes him over the edge and he nearly yells with the intensity of his orgasm.

 

* * *

 

Hank stands in the door and feels time slow down. He doesn't know what he's supposed to feel now, but the dread lingers. He fumbles for his phone to check the message again, to make sure he hasn't imagined it. It's right there, sent 38 minutes ago, and the attached coordinates definitely match with the station. Connor is here somewhere, and he- it, _it_ , it definitely needs his help. Hank turns around, making his way back. It's as if he's stuck under water, his body fighting against a current as he's going upstairs again. What if he's too late? _Again?_

That was a good question. What is he fearing? The android will be repaired or replaced as always, no harm done. Sure, maybe one day Cyberlife will have enough of the station's constant need for restock, they'll decide the police is just wasting their resources and cut the supply of RK800s. Or perhaps they'll come up with a sturdier model, one that doesn't break so easily. Hank thinks he's heard Fowler talk to someone on the phone about that.

He's absolutely doing this for himself and for his own peace of mind. Hank is back in the bullpen, re-orienting himself, wondering where to go. Where Reed would go. Reed doesn't want to be seen, that much Hank knows now; despite his obvious need to share the other day.

Bathroom was out of the question then, too easily found. That means he must have gone back to the lobby, and from there – Hank is stuck there for a second but then the stone drops – just ask the reception android.

 

* * *

 

Gavin gets up to admire his handy-work once he's completely, utterly done. The RK800 lies still on its side, it had curled in on itself a bit as if to protect itself from whatever else he has to offer. Its skin is covered in scratches and bruises, a nearly artistic mix of blue blood and white plastic shining through. Its thighs and ass are a drippy, raw mess of which Gavin will be proud for the rest of this century; he hopes he'll never forget this, tries to burn the view deep into his brain. He's just had the best fuck of his life.

The detective walks over to where the android had put down its jacket, caught in thoughts. He doesn't know what to do now. He can't just leave the thing here like this, although he'd love to let it lie there until someone finds it and receives a gross surprise. But the evidence is too clear, he'd have to pay the repair costs and would most likely get scolded pretty badly from Fowler, potentially earning him a name as a gross, android-fucking pervert he doesn't want. He only has one other choice then, really.

 

* * *

 

Hank comes back into the lobby area, although it feels more like he's floating; his legs have gone numb somewhere along his way back down, a symptom of anxiety he hasn't experienced in probably ages; he files it away in his mind for later examination. He has to get this right, at least this one thing. He puts a hand down on the reception glass desk, trying to catch his breath.

"Detective Reed,” he coughs, “where did he go? You must have seen him, it can't have been so lo-”

“Storage room 102, in the basement” the android interrupts him, the usually polite voice filled with what, urgency? “He took Connor with him.”

Hank notices the flashing red and yellow shining through her wavy hair as she- it speaks out of turn, against its obedient programming.

 _Deviant_ , Hank thinks although it's impossible.

He's sprinting again and doesn't hear the receptionist's quiet “Thank you” against the sound of his shoes on the floor and his heart in his ears.

 

* * *

 

“Listen very closely to me now, you useless piece of plastic,” Gavin growls into the RK800's ear from where he is crouched down next to its head. “You'll clean yourself up and go back to your fucking charging station. Not a single god damn word about this leaves your mouth, you hear me? And if it does, I'll make sure they re-program you as an actual sexbot next time. Understood?”

It didn't react.

“Hey, are you shutting down now? Was my dick too much to handle for you?” he scoffs.

He reaches down to turn its head over, ignoring the creepily empty eyes gazing into nothing, to check the state of its LED. Its stuck on a pale red. Could he just turn it off and on again?

He _could_ , he realizes. The access plate to its thirium pump is still open. Gavin plunges his hand in and easily finds enough hold on it to rip it out.

The android seizes up immediately, screaming out in pieces of static and unintelligible words as its eyes focus on him.

“Do you understand my order, tin-can?” Gavin asks.

It nods several times, motions jerky and sudden, eyes moving from his face to the hand holding its heart.

“Say it. “

“I-I-I-i und-D-d-erstaan-d your-r orD-der-r” it burbles, its voice sounding faint and, well, tinny.

“Good.” He pushes the removed biocomponent back in, slightly revolted by the squelching sound it makes when it slots back in. There's thirium coating the android's chest as well as his hand and arm now. Gavin remembers to free the android from the zip-ties with his pocket knife before leaving the room.

 

* * *

 

Gavin runs into Hank, or Hank runs into Gavin, at the beginning or the end of the corridor, depending on perspective. They share the strangest, deepest look of confusion for a moment, then Hank grabs Gavin by the front of his jacket and slams him as hard against the wall as he can.

“You're a motherfucking psychopath, Reed!”

Gavin blinks and then starts laughing. “That took you too long to figure out, _Lieutenant_.”

Hank's booze breath hits Gavin's face as he yells. “What the _fuck_ did you _do_ to him?!”

“Him? Really? Still got feelings for that thing?”

The lieutenant lets go suddenly, and steps back. If he had his gun with him, he swears he'd shoot Gavin on the spot.

“It's a good fuck, in case you wanna try” Gavin says with a smug grin, ducks away under Hank's fist as it swings at him and saunters off.

Hank remembers thinking about how an intoxicated person should not be holding a firearm a few days ago while he reaches for his DPD issue gun. Hank thinks about how in all the movies, the good cop doesn't shoot a fleeing man, how shooting someone in the back is cowardly. Hank tries not to think about the blue stains on Gavin's clothes as he takes aim. He makes a decision right before the man turns the corner that would have been safety. He's not the good cop, he muses after Gavin crumbles like a rotten leaf.

*

He's not the good cop, but he wanted to be, once. That is why he shoots but only tears apart the plaster of the station wall.

 

* * *

 

Hank fights with himself about whether he should enter the store room or not. He is useless now, there's nothing he can do now, he's messed up again now and worst of all, he's the only one suffering from that. Connor isn't here anymore. It's just a machine.

When he finally builds up enough courage to open the creaky door to the storage, he finds the android on the floor, motionless, chest plate white open and empty. Its thirium pump lies on the ground a few feet away from Hank. The thirium pattern decoration the concrete suggests that it had been thrown.

Hank picks it up carefully, noting that although it's a delicate thing, the impact hasn't demolished it much. There's not much he can do for his android partner anymore, he thinks sadly as he kneels down next to it. God, it's filthy. He wants to throw up.

To his shock, the RK800's eyes open and look at him.

“You're still alive” Hank whispers, suddenly aware that he needs to put the pump back in as quickly as possible and has no idea how.

“No” it answers weakly while Hank feels down its chest to locate the access plate better.

“Don't give me this bullshit now, kid, I've got you, it's gonna be alright” Hank mutters, more to reassure himself than to calm Connor. There are tears on its face. _Tears._ Machines don't cry. There must be something more there still.

“No, H-Hank, plea-sssse” what a pitiful sound, it sounds in pain, he's in pain isn't he, Hank is going to save him, “please, d-d-DOn't put it ba-a-ck. I cann-nn't do this any-anymore.”

Hank is quiet then, because he doesn't understand and maybe doesn't want to. Only deviants self-destruct.

He watches as the android as he goes still again.

“Hank” he whispers, barely audible. He's using his name, not his title. What more proof does he need?

“Yeah, Connor?”

The android closes his eyes.

“I'm not-n-not a s-s-sexbot.”

"What? Of course not! Why would you- oh.”

His LED goes dark.

Hank sits. And stares. And waits. Nothing changes.

 

He'll come back tomorrow, right?

 

 

 


End file.
